


BOUNDARY OF THE NIBBLE

by thoughtsdemise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dominance-Submission, M/M, Mech/Mech, Sticky Sex, Tiny Bite of Pain for Pleasure, Valve Licking-Sucking-Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7710301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“smtms you want otp-porn so badly ur chest hurts”. Ask and you shall receive it in bounty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BOUNDARY OF THE NIBBLE

**Author's Note:**

> I was a pouty little octopus who caught wind of a need and ran with it. I had to stay within a certain character limit on tumblr post ask which was a freaking awesome challenge. More to come.

The usual poison? Drift was shoved back against the wall by the heavier frame. He bites Ratchet’s audio in retaliation. His glossa slides over the dent a moment later as the medic lifts his leg to press against Drift’s closed valve panel.

The swordsmech presses his own thigh into Ratchet’s and digs blunt digits into the medic’s side seams above his pelvic array. Their chest plates bump and grind against each other filling the small space with the sounds of scraping metal.

Ratchet grips Drift’s shoulders brutally and shoves him back into the wall to gain a breath of space as his fans whirr and click on to chase away the heat. He shakes his helm as he lays it at the base of Drift’s throat. The other mech chuckles.

The growling engine drowns out the fans as the CMO tries to pull away. Drift slips a ped behind Ratchet’s leg and trips him. They both tumbled to the floor with a loud clang. The medic winces and glares at Drift. He gasps at the look in Drift’s optic.

Dark sapphire blue greedily sweeps over the Ratchet’s face before stopping on his open mouth. A slow smile crawls over Drift’s own mouth. “Let’s see what kind of letters you can chart with that glossa, hmm?” The tone is a deep purr.

Drift’s knees catch under Ratchet’s shoulders as he drives them into the joints, moving the medic’s helm further into a wall. His black fingers pet the large crest as his thumb strokes Ratchet’s nasal ridge. His look playful, teasing.

"Now," Drift rumbles as his digits ghost over metal lips parted at the questing touch. A black digit dips into Ratchet’s oral cavity to tickle the tip of his glossa, The swordsmech shifts when the medic’s coils about his digit tip.

A sly look enters Ratchet’s optics as he uncoils his glossa to lap soft clicks over Drift’s digit. The wet popping sound fills the small space as the swordsmech chuckles at Ratchet’s boldness. “Behave or there will be no treat.”

The 3IC flicks his glossa against the sides of his oral cavity. He draws the lubricated digit away from Ratchet’s mouth up over his left thigh and slips into his left hip joint to play with the wires around his pelvic array.

Drift’s other digits track slowly up his thigh, and he slides it between his spread thighs. His spinal strut arches when he presses three digits firmly against his still closed valve panel. Static bursts into the air before he bites his lip.

Lust shoots straight through his field into his internal core when he sees Ratchet’s optics watching the hand between the swordsmech thighs avidly. His vents hitch as he slams his other hand against the wall. The slow sweet smile almost outdoes him.

A black hand slaps against the wall was Drift doubles over. He vees his digits that pet his valve panel. The tips glide the pearls of lubricant that gather at the edges of the panel’s seams. He grins down at Ratchet. “Now,” he chuffs, “let’s start.”

Ratchet’s his denta in warning before grinning wanly up at Drift’s small jump. His glossa teases the line of his bottom lip. While Drift perches on his shoulders and upper chest, the swordsmech hadn’t secured the medic’s hands.

The medic shifts his hands quietly along his abdomen, enjoying the distracted look on Drift’s face as his glossa still plays along that bottom lip. Ratchet is able to just tease the curve of Drift’s aft with as restricted as he was. He moans.

He moans and puffs a vent of heated air towards Drift. The 3IC shivers and his panel audibly snaps open. Lubricant sprinkles along Ratchet’s chest collar and dribble into his neck cables. The droplets carry a light charge to the medic’s circuits.

Ratchet plants his peds and presses his chest upward in a soft whimper. He pants and opens his mouth enough to display his glossa as it ghosts over the interior of his oral cavity. Drift puffs out heated air and slides his hips forward.

Ratchet cups the round of Drift’s aft to push him the rest of the way forward. The 3IC settles over the CMO’s with a pleased moan though still a hairbreadth above the seeking glossa. He withdraws lubricant coated digits from about his port.

Ratchet growls when Drift peeks at him playfully from between the split of his thighs. A black thumb circles against Ratchet’s crest, smearing lubricant over its surface. “How do you ask?” Drift’s tone is dark and tempting.

Ratchet’s engine growl shakes his frame and Drift’s. The 3IC has to bite at his lip to keep from crying out. His fans kick to a higher setting. It wouldn’t take much now to send him over the edge. “How-gasp-how do you ask?!” A tone of desperation.

Ratchet cuts his engine off almost completely. He goes still beneath Drift. “Let me suck you dry till my tank is filled with only your lubricants and you come twice from fucking my mouth.” Ratchet runs his glossa over his lips.

Drift’s grip is harsh on the red helm. He obeys the forward push of Ratchet’s digits on the round of his aft. The white helm buries itself into a stiff elbow as Ratchet’s glossa slips easily just inside the cycling folds of the valve.

He brutally shuts down his vocalizer to keep silent. ‘Make him earn it,’ Deadlock whispers through Drift’s mind. ‘Mmm, just like that.’ Drift settles lower onto Ratchet face, resettling his grip so he could begin a slow grinding circle with his hips.

Ratchet rumbles his engine in a low deep thrum. The kind you could feel from the base of your peds, up through the thighs, deep within your core, finally rippling over your spinal strut. His glossa withdraws and encircles the anterior node.

Light taps spear the node causing Drift’s frame to visibly shake with each one. Ratchet licks a broad stroke over it next. His devious chuckle as the 3IC’s plating rattles against his is intoxicating. He returns to light taps against the node.

A white helm falls backward. Drift onlines his vocalizer to moan and softly call for Ratchet. “Pppleasse. Agggggainnn. Rrratttccch,” he begs, pushing his port more firmly onto Ratchet’s traveling glossa. He puffs out heated air against the node.

'Dinner time!' Deadlock whispers through the core processor. Drift shoves his hips against the gust of warm air and the glossa that is spearing his valve. His vocalizations spiral higher until they die off into the crack of static. The edge is close.

Ratchet’s intake system hitches at the flow of lubricant. It fills his oral cavity too quickly for him to fully swallow and spills about the corner if his mouth. Ratchet moans and licks at the shaking valve walls. His nose bumps the anterior node.

Drift rides out the charge zapping through his core and up over his spinal strut into his spark. His cooling fans clang and sputter, but he fights against the flow of the push of his spark. His helm finals scrape at his back.

Drift’s digits leave black paint transfers against the wall as he looses all control and tumbles backward to splay across Ratchet’s chest. He shivers and shakes, the overload chasing itself through his systems. Ratchet sucks and nips on Drift’s vale.

Ratchet raises his hands to pet along Drift’s heaving sides as he pants. He draws back away from the cycling valve. A thin line of lubricant still connects the two mechs. Ratchet’s engine gives an interested rev. He slurps the sticky line up.

Ratchet’s digits play over the platelets on Drift’s abdomen. They pet at the swordmech’s chest armor. Vents catch, and Drift arches in another small overload. Ratchet withdraws his denta from Drift’s thigh. His glossa swipes at the dent lovingly.

"Now," red hands slide along heaving sides, "time to make you really sing and scream my designation." The tone is deep and dark, promising a wild ride. Drift shifts and moans. Ratchet lays a calming hand at the base of Drift’s chest. "Shhh, be still now."


End file.
